


Can't Buy Me Love

by Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee



Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Angst, Dean POV, Fluff, HollyCon, M/M, Pining, Sexual Content, aidean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-08-12 20:21:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7947739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee/pseuds/Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean arrives in Tokyo for HollyCon, unsure of how to behave when he is reunited with Aidan after so long apart. He's determined to have a great time but the world seems to want to remind him of how things used to be. Will Dean be able to control his feelings - and will Aidan still have any for him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at RPF and came out of nowhere so feel free to comment with your thoughts.  
> The fic is loosely based on the real events that took place at HollyCon. The rest is artistic liberty 
> 
> For the purpose of this story, Dean isn't married.

Tiredness tugs at Dean like a tide, threatening to pull him under. His eyes sting and his head swims as he lugs his duffel bag over his shoulder and makes his way into the airport. Money can buy an upper class seat but it doesn't stop you being delayed, and Dean has been traveling for eight hours longer than he'd banked on.

He is thrust into the hustle of Tokyo as soon as he is in the building, crowds of people milling about and taking selfies as they reunite with loved ones. Dean knows he is supposed to find his driver but his sleep-deprived brain can't seem to shift into gear and he shuffles along with the throngs making their way toward the exit.

There's a man ahead of him, maybe ten metres away. He stands a whole head above the wide corridor filled with smaller frames, a lone figure picked out of the herd; a bag slung over broad shoulders and dark, tightly curled hair pulled into a messy bun at the back of his head. 

Shoulders.

Dean can’t help but break into a small smile, feeling the muscles in his face pull tight as his dimples flicker. He remains reserved as ever on the outside while his brain goes into overdrive, flashes of memory crashing into his mind, uninvited and uncontrollable.

_His head buried into Aidan’s shoulder as both of them gasp for breath, crying with laughter at - well, God knows what, they are always crying with laughter. Aidan roars and throws his head back and his hand squeezes Deans knee until he remembers himself and seamlessly places it back on his own as if nothing has happened, though Dean is sure his own heart is pounding loud enough for everyone to hear._

_Aidan's shoulders silhouetted by the moonlight seeping in through cracks in the hotel blinds, lighting him up in shades of silver and charcoal; his sleeping body sprawled haphazardly next to Dean with limbs thrown outwards and the sheet tangled round his waist. Dean wishes he had his camera because he wants to keep this moment, this perfect light and this man, exactly as he is now. It’s almost the end of the premiere tour and they both know that after this the chances to see each other will become few and far between, that their lives are destined to spin off in different directions despite the strength of the gravity between them. That when they do see each other they will be different, never again as unburdened and carefree as they are right now. Older, more cautious, wiser. More to lose. Dean knows Aidan is destined for bigger things, even if Aidan doesn't know it yet, and that fame will change him as he has seen it change others_.

_Aidan's shoulders. The last thing Dean sees as Aidan walks away through the airport, away from Wellington and away from his life. Dean pretends not to see them heave, and turns before anyone can see him rub the sting away from his eyes, fumbling for sunglasses perched on his head. Dean wonders when Aidan will find the note he left in his pocket._

_**"Time was passing like a hand waving from a train I wanted to be on. I hope you never have to think about anything as much as I think about you".** _

He is dragged from his reverie by the agonising collision of a trolley with the back of his ankles. He looks round incredulously but the tourist simply walks on, oblivious. 

The man with the bun isn't Aidan, of course - Dean could pick his shoulders out of a crowd and he knows these definitely don't belong to him; but they are similar enough and only now Dean starts to wonder how he is going to manage to come face to face with Aidan after so long. How he will act. How he will stop himself from running to him. But he is an actor, after all, and Dean does quiet restraint better than anyone, effortlessly portraying cool and calm while under the surface he is bursting.

He knows he will have to fold his arms to stop himself reaching out, tucking his hands under his armpits in an effort to look relaxed and keeping what Dean guesses would be an acceptable distance between them.

And what about Aidan?

Has time really changed so much for them?

Sure, they've caught up here and there along the way; they email, when Aidan remembers; but they haven't spent any time alone in each other's company since the day of the last premiere and Dean isn't even sure if Aidan feels the same way any more.

Was it all just a nice distraction; or worse, boredom? A good time, complete with this set of rules that neither of them dared to speak out loud, to be swiftly forgotten and smoothed over once the film was all over? Dean knows it wasn't that way for him. That he still thinks of Aidan more often than he will ever admit. That no-one since has even come close.

It wasn't even that Dean particularly had a thing for guys. But Aidan - with him it was more that they were so flawlessly in tune, so inevitably meant to be in each other's lives that only being together on set became not enough, that spending every minute of their free time together just hanging around wasn't enough; and when they realised that their time was nearly up, their days together numbered, the filming coming to end and and the looming unasked question _'What next?'_ ; then mere snatches of physical contact; silly hugs and moments pressed up against one another learning lines weren't enough either.

They had always been comfortable around each other, handsy, even - they were actors, they all did it, hamming it up; but that realisation woke in Dean a desperation he hasn't known since, a need to immerse himself in the other man's existence, to drown in Aidan.

Dean feels like he has known Aidan since the beginning of everything, that maybe they were once part of the same star. And then when it happened, when it all spilled over and Dean couldn’t hold himself back any longer Aidan had happily returned Dean's affection, wildly and with a singular intensity, drinking Dean in and swallowing him whole.

But there is more at stake now, so much more...

Countless magazine pictures of Aidan surrounded by beautiful girls serve as a guilty reminder that he shouldn't even be thinking these things, shouldn't still be looking...

And yet.

Time may have passed and Aidan's star is on the rise but Dean knows that for him, nothing has changed.

                   __________

Dean sighs and slides into the black leather of the car seat. All he wants is a comfortable bed but he knows he needs to recharge quickly; people are waiting for him and he no doubt has a lot of people counting on his well-known sunny disposition to have a good time at the convention.

His driver asks something but he misses it and just nods and smiles instead, which seems to please him. Dean realises he's asking for an autograph, thrusting a picture of Fili and Kili towards him, the first of hundreds that he will have to sign this weekend.

He obliges of course - he's been looking forward to it. The passion of the Hobbit fans never ceases to amaze him and this time he gets to do it while hanging out with Aidan. The picture makes him smile. Those damn costumes, those bloody wigs. Dean constantly dipping his moustache in his food and Aidan's hair comically held out of his face with little girl's pink hair clips.

The thought of Aidan's hair sends more memories flooding into Dean's mind. How it always curled even tighter from the heat of running around all day, pinging in all directions when he took his wig off.

Dean tries not to think about Aidan's hair.

_An increasingly rare night out and of course they'd had too much to drink, trying their hardest to walk straight and keep even straighter faces, stumbling through alleys, goofing around, each making sure the other was still standing, though who was holding up who Dean couldn't be sure._

_Aidan was giggling into Dean's shoulder and then all of a sudden it was Dean's fingers tangled in ropes of hair that smelt of too many smokes, pulling him close, so close that he can taste red wine on his breath; and the world stops for a moment as this huge shift takes place, as tangible and solid as the chest now pressed up against his, and Dean is suddenly sober and clear brown eyes are piercing his, searching and asking all the questions they can't voice, lips ghosting across his but neither daring to close the void, millimetres apart but an abyss stretches between them. Time stands still and Dean knows there is no going back from this but he wants it he wants it he wants it..._

 

_Wild hair is blown in a wind laced with salt as they cruise down the coast in Dean's car, windows rolled down and music blasting as Aidan dozes, warm skin glowing gold in the New Zealand summer sun as his arm rests on the open sill and Dean feels this incredible lightness, a whole weekend stretching out in front of them and all of it theirs alone._

 

 _Black curls dripping with sweat and the exquisite pain as the man above works his way into him, inch by delicious inch; Deano, he breathes, ohh Dean.._.

His driver says something to Dean that he misses yet again, pointing out a famous building in the city, but he is still giddy from the assault by his memory.

There's a map of the world on the back of the seat in front of him and Dean stares at it, fingers absentmindedly tracing the never ending space between Auckland and Dublin. Not that Aidan is even there often now, his fingers finding first London, then L.A, but it is still so far, Aidan lives just too far away no matter where he is working. But then it occurs to Dean that maybe it's he that is too far, tucked away on his land at the end of the world, with goats and bees and sunsets and his camera.

                  _____________

Dean reaches the hotel and is greeted by a small line of people handing him gifts and envelopes. He smiles and makes polite small talk, genuinely touched by their courtesy.

As he makes his way through the lobby he feels a nervous knot forming in the pit of his stomach, aware that the man who has occupied his thoughts all the way here is somewhere in this building, so close now that he is almost convinced he can smell his warm, comforting scent. Dean looks down at his battered white Henley shirt and brown boots and suddenly wishes he'd had the foresight to scrub up a bit.

There are already groups of fans in various extravagant costumes dotted about the building, even though there are a few hours to go before the event begins, and Dean can't help but be impressed. It's all helping to lift his mood but he is still tense about actually having to behave like there was never anything between them. He is sure Aidan doesn't even remember it, let alone want to talk about it.

He turns the corner in a corridor and is confronted by an almost life size cut out of Aidan. Not even dressed as Kili, just a blown up picture of his everyday self. For a heart stopping moment Dean thinks that it's really him, but after a beat he relaxes and gives his head a slight shake. Dean can't help but move closer and study the face he knows so well, placed before him with such delicate, vulnerable detail on display.

Aidan's face, always expressive, even when perfectly still. Dean's eyes cast over his brow to his jawline and down to the part of his neck where stubble meets smooth skin that Dean knows the taste of. He looks strong, centred. His shoulders contain an energy like a coiled spring, on the verge of something explosive.

Dean has always thought that Aidan is a walking contrast: Sometimes he controls his surroundings, his body dominating the space, chest held up and shoulders square, his mouth formed into a line and eyes quietly intense, his very presence demanding attention even though he never asks for it. But then at times Dean wonders how Aidan manages to make his every day life into his toughest acting gig, his expression giving so little away while his body totally betrays him.

The way he rubs his face when he is embarrassed and tugs his ears, the way he runs his hands through his hair, trying to make himself physically smaller and Dean knows that the younger man is shy and still not at ease with the sudden flush of fame he has found for himself.

The way he likes to grow a beard because then he can hide behind it.

The way he buys himself time with too many words while he thinks of a way to dig himself out of a hole, and tries not to look bored while repeating stock answers handed to him by producers.

The way that sometimes he looks sad, though Dean knows he isn't, his external expression often not matching with his inner feelings. People ask why Aidan looks so angry but Dean knows he is only lost in thought.

Dean used to think that he could never lose anyone if he photographed them enough. He photographed Aidan. Posed portraits and secret candid stills that the man himself doesn't know he has to this day.

As it turns out, he reckons, all his pictures show him is how much he's lost.

His feet have propelled him to the floor that his room is on. The key card heavy in his hand, he searches the unfamiliar doors for his number but he suddenly realises that while he's been daydreaming, he has stopped.

He stops and he turns because he can hear a voice, a low but excited laugh, words rolled by that perfect accent and he grins despite himself, because all of a sudden he is home, because he knows that voice. Because he'd know that voice anywhere.

_"Dean. It's good to meet you" it says as a strong hand shakes his own, and Dean thinks to himself he's never heard a voice that sounds like a smile before. Aidan is taller than him, his hair cut short and Dean has to laugh because although they have never met they're dressed the same, casual in their zip hoodies and t-shirts and leather jackets; and in that moment he knows that this, this audition and working with this guy on this film, standing brightly opposite himself, is all going to be just fine._

 

_"Deano?" It softly questions, as he hears the door to his trailer creak open. It's too bright to open his burning eyes. Dean has been too sick to move all day but of course he's come to look for him, he has a key. Then "Oh darlin'..." it sighs, as a warm body slumps down next to Dean's form on the sofa and snuggles in next to him, cool hands on his warm forehead, face nestling into the crook of his neck._

 

_"Oh fuck, Dean..." A broken gasp from underneath him, raw and reverent, and he arches his back as he comes and it undoes Dean, his name spoken so desperately on those perfect lips, and he can't help but follow Aidan to his own climax, and his eyes roll back and suddenly everything is made of stars..._

"O'Gorman!" It yells. "Deano!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's conference time for the boys. The lollipop makes an appearance.
> 
> The chapter is kind of a short one. All of the song lyrics belong to the original owners. 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who left comments and kudos, massively appreciated!

The truth is that Aidan is always singing. He's a much better singer than he cares to admit. Sure, he _says_ he doesn't sing but the fact of the matter is that he hates watching himself on screen as it is and singing would be... Well. He can't commit that to film. 

But when he's happy, it just spills out, nodding his head and tapping his fingers and humming along to anything he hears, words sung in a voice like whiskey and not quite in time, not that it matters.

And today Aidan is in a good mood. He is in a _fantastic_ mood. Music pouring out of his phone, patiently signing autographs and thanking fans, urging Dean to join in - “Song about ya, Deano!" as he selects Psycho Killer, Dean rolling his eyes and earning Aidan a flying pen to the head, but obliging anyway, leaving his table to fool around for a fan’s camera and fiddle with the gifts left at Aidan's; caught in the space between wanting to be closer to the Irishman and wanting to keep his distance to avoid his heart (and his dignity) breaking into even smaller pieces.

 

They've spent the morning taking photos with fans. What a fucking blast. Dean almost can't believe it's been three years. It took seconds to seamlessly slide back into their old friendship, the banter, the laughing, Aidan's incessant innuendo and Dean's mock disapproval. 

Aidan greeted him with a bone-crushing hug and a grin that split his face from ear to ear and Dean feels like one of those stupid cartoons where his heart pops and melts all over the floor. He found himself marched down the corridor with an arm across his shoulders, happy to let Aidan do all the talking (Who is he kidding? Aidan always does all the talking), while he grounded himself and tried to let go of all the thoughts that have been plaguing him all the way here. And it didn’t take long.

It’s hard to stay frozen when the sun is shining straight through you.

 

Dean’s contentedly humming on and off, taking time to chat with fans, even practicing the odd bit of Japanese; but Aidan is really into it, singing out loud and it elates Dean to see the younger man so energetic. 

Aidan, despite being three years older than when they parted, is still a total five-year-old when it comes to sweets, Dean notes. He’s rapidly accumulating a pile of candy on his table and he looks at it gleefully, unwrapping a lollipop and sticking it in his mouth.

 

If Dean didn't know better he'd swear Aidan is choosing the music on purpose. Every lyric goes straight through him, as if Aidan is trying to tell him something without actually addressing the elephant in the room. 

_...I'll give you all I got to give if you say you'll love me too_

_I may not have a lot to give but what I got I'll give to you..._

 

Watching Aidan mouth that fucking lollipop is doing all sorts to Dean, giving rise to - quite literally - unholy urges, and Dean squirms beneath the table to hide the growing bulge in his jeans, silently thanking his stars that he’s grown enough of a beard recently to hide his red face.

He can’t deny to himself that these days Aidan looks better than ever. He is sure Aidan is doing it on purpose too, slowly rolling it around his tongue, taking it out of his mouth and popping it back in again. Dean looks down and furiously doodles on the table in an effort to ignore the other man's oral gymnastics.

_...I want you, just exactly like I used to_

_And baby this is only bringin' me down..._

 

Every photo they took had become more and more ridiculous, taking turns to come up with poses and he’s sure they are having a better time than those that have paid to see them, being provided with props and gifts. Being here with Aidan is better than he had imagined. His friend is clearly ecstatic to see him, and hasn't stopped bouncing since they were reunited.

An image of an overgrown puppy always comes to mind when the Irishman is around and today is no exception despite Aidan protesting that he's been traveling for weeks prior to this and that he too is exhausted. But for all his talking Aidan has said nothing of them, of _this_ , and Dean doesn’t know whether to be glad that so far there has always been someone in between them, that he isn’t left alone with Aidan to say everything and nothing at all; or to panic that already the hours they have together are slipping away and Dean has no idea, none at all, what Aidan is thinking.

 

_…You know I can’t let you just slide through my hands, and wild horses couldn’t drag me away…_

 

Aidan’s face is an unreadable mask, plastered with smiles, mischievous eyes and that goddamn all-consuming laugh, giving nothing away of feeling anything for Dean other than being happy to see him.

Fucking actors, thinks Dean.

He pretends not to notice his dazzling array of teeth as the Irishman once again throws his head back and howls with laughter, teeth that Dean remembers all too well grazing along his skin, teeth that have bitten down on Dean’s shoulder more times than he can count, how Dean is hooked on the way that they’re perfectly imperfect, the slight crook in his front teeth that makes him look so obtainable...

_Get a fucking grip, Dean._

He takes a deep breath and resolves to just enjoy the time they have together for what it is. Better to have loved and lost and all that shit.

 

_…You turn my head when you turn around_

_You turn the whole world upside down_

_I'm smitten I'm bitten I'm hooked I'm cooked_

_I'm stuck like glue_

_You make me, make me, make me, make me hungry for you…_

A photo is placed on his table for him to sign and Dean pulls it towards himself, pen poised. They’re jumping up in the air, silly expressions and hair flying, and Dean is immediately drawn to Aidan’s t-shirt which has ridden up to reveal a delicious glimpse of familiar hipbone and a trail of hair leading down to the waistband of his jeans that Dean thinks he could trace by heart, making Dean gulp and wish he could reach into the photo and just lift the shirt a little higher.

Remembering himself and why he’s here, he decides to make a joke of it and draws on the picture to poke a little fun at Aidan, just as he’s been adding devil horns and doodles all over the images of the other man before he’s had a chance to sign.

 

_…I find the map and draw a straight line_

_Over rivers, farms, and state lines_

_The distance from 'here' to where you'd be…_

 

Dean’s only consolation is the fact that as soon as they entered the room the first thing Aidan did was pull his table over to be nearer his own. At least, he thinks, Aidan still feels comfortable in Dean’s presence, still wants to be closer than society says they should be.

Dean thinks he could learn that simply having Aidan close by could be enough. He tells himself that if he says it enough then perhaps he will come to believe it.

Secretly Dean hopes that every time Aidan wears his stolen t-shirt it will feel like electricity.

 

                                                                                      _________________________

   

They’re making their way to a Q&A session. It’s on a different floor, across the other side of the building, though at this rate they’re going to be late.

Dean knows that Aidan is the one most people are here to see. He is impressed with how he takes time to talk to everyone, never tiring of posing for photographs with excited fans although Dean is sure there are a hundred things Aidan would rather be doing, mainly involving sitting down with a beer, or sleeping.

Their interpreters are trying to usher them through the crowd but the main lifts are packed and instead they’re steered away to a service lift, and as the door opens Dean feels a lump rising in his throat when he realizes it’s only big enough for the two of them, that he is being thrust unprepared into this moment that he has tried so hard to play down, that for possibly the longest thirty seconds in all the years of his life that he will be once again alone, with Aidan, and he has no idea what to do.

 

Aidan holds out his arm and gestures for Dean to enter first and he feels like he is stepping out onto a stage. He moves with what he hopes comes off as a James Dean kind of languidness but is, in fact, a result of his limbs not obeying his reeling brain.

Aidan unhurriedly steps in next to him - how can he be so composed? - and they stand, hands jammed in jean pockets, facing the door, inches apart yet the all the space of an ocean rolls between them and Dean thinks he can feel waves underneath his feet.

Aidan calmly punches a button with his finger and the doors slide silently closed.

 

For a beat they stay motionless. Dean stares at the door as if it will provide some kind of answer, hoping his face isn't betraying him with a terrified expression.

He doesn’t know if he wants it to open right now or remain closed forever. He sighs and closes his eyes, the recalled familiarity of their proximity overwhelming him.

Aidan is lost in thought but Dean realizes that he is lost in Aidan, and it sharply dawns on him that to pretend he feels nothing but friendship is futile. He knows there is a word for all this, the way he feels about Aidan, something he heard once from somewhere far away: Saudade.

 

Warmth radiates like a sunburst from Aidan's body next to his. He knows Aidan has turned to look at him, he can feel his eyes running across the lines of his face even though Dean's eyelids remain shut.

He hopes he doesn’t look as wrecked as he feels.

His shoulders drop, reveling in the solitude with this man that he has craved for hours now - no, months; and he wants to stop time as he thinks to himself over and over ' _I missed you, I missed you, I missed you...’_

 

"I know" Aidan says. So quiet and soft that Dean almost misses it. "I know". 

 

And despite himself Dean lets out a snort of laughter. They never really have needed to speak to know what the other was thinking.

One soul, two bodies.

Dean feels like he might choke. Or throw up. He feels Aidan lean in, his mouth just centimeters from Dean’s hair. Aidan breathes in and Dean wonders if he can still smell the pine needles on the forest floor from the first weekend they spent together away from everyone else.

Dean's eyes open, and for a fleeting moment he thinks he sees what he wants to know written on Aidan’s face. He feels his pupils widen and he parts his lips to say something but all at once the lift glides to a halt and the doors open.

Sala is standing right there waiting for them and practically pulls Aidan out of the lift, springing off toward the expectant room without a backward glance, and before Dean can blink Aidan has gone, leaving Dean standing with his mouth gaping like a fish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the hardest terms to translate into English is saudade, the Portuguese word for a feeling, a longing for something, someone or some event that one is fond of, which is gone, but might return in a distant future. Saudade is not nostalgia. In nostalgia, one has a mixed happy and sad feeling, a memory of happiness but a sadness for its impossible return and sole existence in the past. Saudade is like nostalgia but with the hope that what is being longed for might return, even if that return is unlikely or so distant in the future to be almost of no consequence to the present.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evening falls in Tokyo, and our boys head out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long to update this. I wasn't sure I was going to continue but heck, here's a little bit more. I very much needed to get the lads from A to B here, so bear with me! I hope you enjoy it.  
> Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments, it means an awful lot.

Dean startles as his phone buzzes on the bedside table.

He groans as he fumbles for the phone and flops heavily back onto the bed, scowling as he reads.

 _Message received: AidanTurner 19:38:17 JST_  
_Hey Deano we’re downstairs you coming?_

He clicks out a reply and tosses the phone onto the crumpled covers, covering his eyes with his forearm.

 _Message sent: DeanO 19:39:28 JST_  
_Nope_

The phone vibrates again and Dean contemplates throwing it out of the window, but decides against it.

 _Message received: AidanTurner 19:39:56 JST_  
_Don’t make me come up there you arsehole_

Dean growls and hauls himself up to a sitting position. He really doesn’t feel like going anywhere, except to sleep. Doesn’t feel like facing Aidan after his excruciating afternoon, trying wildly the whole time to keep the churning feeling in his stomach at bay and the lump in his throat from choking his words. After the lift incident he's finding it so tiring keeping himself guarded enough not to get hurt, but is finding it hard not to be drawn in by Aidan's high spirits and... well, his face, really. He knows though, from experience, that if he doesn’t present himself quickly that Aidan really will come up here and drag him down there - which he thinks would be far, far worse; so he reluctantly shoves his feet back into his shoes and grabs his wallet from where he left it on the desk, cursing the Irish bastard all the while. Sala has some friends in the city who are keen to show them some of their favourite spots. Dean had hoped that if he hid in his room he might get away with not going, but of course that hadn't worked. He stops in front of the mirror on his way out and runs his hands through his hair, hoping to tame it, but the humidity seems to be conspiring against him and all he is left with is a wavy mess which sticks up at the back from where he’s been lying on the bed. He wonders if he should change but then he decides he won’t give Aidan the satisfaction of thinking he wanted to go out in the first place.

                                                                          ____________________________________ 

Dean eyes the room across the top of his glass as he drains the remaining beer. Aidan had gone to get refills some ten minutes ago but he’s been waylaid and is chatting animatedly to a gathering of hipster-types, drinks sitting forgotten on the bar. He feels the foam from the beer crackling in his moustache. He’s having a better time than he’d predicted – much better, actually, but he still feels tense. For his part, though, Aidan has made it easy, chatting with everyone and not singling Dean out with any questioning looks.

Sala next to him is now deep in conversation with his friends, who’d taken them to an admittedly very cool yakitori restaurant which was thankfully loud enough to excuse Dean from talking too much. They’ve moved on their second bar, a fair bit of cliché at play if Dean is honest; neon cherry blossoms, anime graffiti on the bathroom walls and some fairly bizarre music; but there are these huge glass windows with the most gorgeous view of the city and Dean likes it all the same. He can’t help but admit that much against his better judgement he’s enjoying the other view from here too, that of his dark-haired friend in the most impossibly perfect pair of black jeans. Dean wonders how he even got the damn things on, the way they’re gripping his long legs – not that he’s complaining, but it’s not helping him take his mind off his churning emotions. It’s raining really heavily outside, dark droplets winding their way across the glass, tripping over their own feet on their way down. It reminds him of home and suddenly he is aching for his bed again. He wonders if now would be a good time to just slide out of the room unnoticed. He moves to grab his belongings off the table but at that exact moment Aidan starts gesturing for him to join them, and Dean can’t think of an excuse fast enough. Swallowing hard, he saunters over to the group, making sure to plaster a casual smile on his face as he goes.

                                                                          ____________________________________ 

 

Turns out that the philosophy is here that if you’re not drinking, you’re not playing – and this crowd is definitely playing, thinks Dean. Aidan had found a couple of photography students that were keen to meet Dean, and he’s enjoyed the last half hour talking all kinds of junk about equipment and ideas for upcoming exhibitions. Drinks are scattered across the table they’ve been steered to after hanging around at the bar, where a group of maybe twenty revellers welcome them into the fold and thrusting shot glasses filled with some unidentified brown liquid toward them.  
“ **Kanpai**!” they yell, and Dean feels a bitter burn as the spirit slides down his throat and hears Aidan spluttering next to him, eyebrows jumping up his face as empty glasses are slammed down on the table.  
“What _is_ this stuff?” he wails, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand but Dean just smiles and reaches for the next shot that has already been sloshed into the glass in front of him. The assembled crowd are variably grimacing or laughing, conversations bubbling up and over the top of each other, drink flowing, music getting louder and more eccentric, and Dean realises he is enjoying himself. More than that – he is genuinely happy. It’s good, this. The bar, the city, even being here with Aidan. Thanks to the drinks he’s getting over the lift - it’s not Aidan’s fault, after all; and Dean is focusing on just enjoying the evening they have together before real life claims them and hurls them back to their opposite corners of the globe.

Aidan has gone back to regaling a small group with some wild tale, gesticulating wildly and making the girls squeal. Dean can’t help but think that once he would have had Aidan’s whole attention on a night out, that he could hold the other man’s entire focus even from the other side of a room, conversation falling on Aidan’s deaf ears as he would single Dean out with a smouldering glance, the promise of things to come later that night etched deep in his expression. Things are different now, Dean thinks, but what did he expect? Aidan’s thigh crashes into his own as his story nears the end and Aidan has everyone in stitches. He hopes Aidan can’t feel his goose bumps.

He shifts in his seat and nudges Aidan’s glass toward him.  
“Drink up, Aid.”  
Aidan looks round and Dean is suddenly disarmed to see he’s beaming at him – no, not at him - for him; crinkled laughing eyes lit up by the neon bar and the warmth of the alcohol, and Dean thinks he would walk barefoot over hot coals to be looked at like that again.  
“I’ll have it in a minute, better not drink too much, eh?” Aidan counters, and Dean can’t help but snigger, recalling several occasions he had bundled a drunken Aidan into his trailer, hurling paracetamol and water bottles in his general direction.  
“Ooh, when did you get so mature?” he gibes.  
“When I started hanging out with forty year olds,” Aidan smirks into his beer, raising his dark eyebrows as if he knows what will follow.  
“I am not forty!” Dean is so incredulous he realises he is practically squeaking. He clears his throat and tries again. “I’m not forty yet thanks, mate.” He can see that Aidan is delighted with himself for finally getting him to blow his cool, reminding Dean of the days they’d spend trying to out-do each other on set and make the other fluff their lines.

Dean doesn’t like to think about the milestone birthday.  
About how much time has passed since they last saw each other.  
About how Aidan is definitely not the kid he used to know, how he’s more confident now. The Irishman is as familiar to Dean as the house he grew up in, but watching him today he hasn’t been able to shake the feeling that there’s all these newly faceted edges to the other man that he isn’t acquainted with, that perhaps _his_ Aidan is slipping away from him.  
Dean doesn’t like to think about how he himself is getting older – but apparently not wiser, he concludes; not able to take his gaze off at Aidan’s perfect ass as he excuses himself and walks off toward the bathrooms.

                                                                          ____________________________________ 

 

Aidan is right though, and Dean knows they should leave soon no matter how good the night promises to be. He’s tired from the tips of his hair to his toes. Sala is long gone. They’re here for a reason after all. They’ve a busy day tomorrow and it’s already getting late. If he drinks any more he will be useless in the morning and frankly he has his suspicions that Aidan might need to wear his sunglasses for the better part of the day if he doesn’t drag him out of here. He wonders if Aidan even knows what day it is, let alone what time zone he’s in, with the amount of recent traveling he’s told Dean about. To his surprise the Irishman comes without a fuss, allowing Dean to shepherd him out of the bar despite the protests of their hosts. The rain has stopped and there is a welcome clarity in the air, and Dean immediately feels himself sobering. He moves to hail a cab but Aidan catches him by the elbow.  
“Let’s just walk back. Those guys told me we can cut straight across the park, much quicker.”

Dean falters, doubting very much that it will be faster, but Aidan is looking at him with those pleading eyes that he does so well and he curses himself internally for not being able to say no to this man.  
“Sure. I hope you’ve swallowed a map though Turner, because if you get us lost you’re damn well carrying me.”  
Aidan just chuckles and says, “I’m willing to take the chance. Maybe we should have brought your Zimmer frame though,” before ducking to avoid Dean’s incoming wallop and heading off along the road.

                                                                        ____________________________________ 

 

The park is beautiful, even darkly lit, and Dean wishes he had his camera even though night photography has never been his forte. It’s remarkably quiet despite the busy roads, and he’s enjoying this stillness in the city; their feet breeding multicoloured ripples in the lead-dark puddles as they reflect the thousands of windows stretching up into the black sky around them. Aidan is walking just slightly in front of him, his exuberant mood undisguised as he jumps up and down along the concrete ledges lining the edge of the path, humming something that Dean can’t quite catch. In moments like this Dean catches a glimpse of the dancer Aidan used to be, light on his feet despite the drink; and remembers that Aidan had tried to teach him once, bodies pressed against each other as they crashed around Dean’s tiny room in fits of giggles. The memory makes Dean blush as he recalls the session ended with Aidan showing him just exactly how flexible he was, clothes strewn on every available surface and Dean’s own astounded moans echoing in his ears.

As they reach the middle of the park the space opens out and they find themselves in a plaza covered with beautiful backlit fountains. Aidan pulls out a smoke and gropes his pocket for a lighter.  
“You know you can’t smoke that out here, right?”  
“Hmm?” Aidan grunts, unlit cigarette dangling between clamped lips. Dean doesn’t like smoking but he can’t help but think Aidan somehow manages to look exquisite when he does it.  
“Smoking outside, it’s a thing. You can smoke in the restaurants and stuff but not out here,” Dean explains, and Aidan’s brow knits together but he removes the cigarette from his mouth anyway and sticks it back in his pocket.  
“Fuckin’ killjoys.”  
Aidan’s accent is always stronger when he’s had a few drinks, and though it’s a total cliché Dean loves it. He wonders how he can get the other man talking more.  
“You know, there’s all sorts of stuff that’s considered rude here. Like blowing your nose outside. Eating while walking,” Dean adds, aiming the last comment pointedly at his friend who seems to be constantly hungry and in search of something to eat.  
Aidan glances at him with a sly smile, “I wonder what they think of people that get stuck in mailboxes then. Is that considered good etiquette?”

This time Dean lands his playful punch, but what he hasn’t bargained for is catching Aidan off-guard. His hand connects with Aidan’s lower ribs, and with a surprised gasp the man is sent flying sideways toward the fountains, feet scrambling to regain their balance. He somehow manages to avoid ending up flat on his face, but as he flails his hand catches one of the ill-timed sprays, sending the jet of water aiming directly at his upper body.

Dean stops dead, and for a beat he thinks Aidan is either going to kill him or pull him in the water too, but once he’s leapt out of the spray and regained his breath the Irishman just tilts his head to the side, his expression unreadable; barks a laugh, and hops back down to the walkway. He playfully throws his arm round Dean’s shoulders and pretends to fuss at his shirt.  
“Lucky this t-shirt is black ‘eh Deano, or we’d have everyone asking me to start scything,” he quips, pulling Dean in close; and Dean laughs, knowing that Aidan has already been asked about a hundred times earlier in the day about a certain scene from his last shoot.

Aidan’s shirt thankfully isn’t soaked, but it’s just damp enough for it to cling in places to his skin and for Dean to see how muscled his chest has become. Fuck, he thinks. Dean can smell Aidan’s cologne, which gives him an overwhelming urge to lean in to the man’s long neck to run his mouth across what he knows is always hot skin. He tries to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other until Aidan has removed his arm.

                                                                         ____________________________________ 

 

As they reach the far side of the park, Dean is more than a little impressed to see that Aidan has indeed managed to find his way back to their hotel. The tastefully lit sign glows a welcome amber about three blocks ahead of them. He’s almost not looking forward to the evening ending now, which he appreciates is ironic, given his earlier internal tantruming; but he knows that tomorrow he will have to say goodbye to Aidan.

Dean realizes that Aidan has stopped and is captivated by a display of bizarrely flavoured chocolate bars by the door of a small 24-hour convenience store. “You serious? You cannot possibly be hungry; after the amount you ate at dinner…” Dean begins.  
“But,” Aidan gestures lamely toward the candy, “Deeeean…”  
Dean sighs with faux distain, “Truly Aidan, it’s like chaperoning a child. Go on. Be quick.”  
Aidan grins gleefully and disappears into the shop. Dean moves just along the street to a patch of bare wall, exhaling loudly and leaning his back against it, watching the lights dancing in the deep puddles at the side of the road just in front of him. He’s more impressed than anything that Aidan is even contemplating food, even if it is baked potato flavoured Kit Kats, at this time. He’s so tired now, the adrenaline of the day and the evening having worn off, that he’s starting to feel slightly nauseous; and he stands in the dark warmth of the city with his eyes shut while he waits for the other man to emerge. He’s thinking about home, about the winter that awaits him; how strange the idea of frost on the windows seems when he’s quietly sweating here on the street in Tokyo in the small hours of the morning.

He’s distracted when Aidan calls, “Alright Deano?”, and for that reason he doesn’t think as he steps forward, doesn’t hear the passing car – but he does think as the first droplets spray over his body, as he opens his eyes to see a wall of silver water racing toward him like a tsunami. In the split second before he is drenched what he thinks is, “Shit.”

Dean can’t be sure, but he thinks he would probably be drier if he’d jumped into a swimming pool fully dressed. He’s not just a bit wet – he is utterly sodden, comically so. Water is flowing in rivulets down his face. His once-white t-shirt has almost disappeared against his skin, and his jeans pasted to his legs like a wetsuit, hair flattened against his head from the weight of the water in it. All he can do is stand and gasp, mouth agape, staring wide-eyed at Aidan who has also stopped, standing about three metres away. Aidan, who of course avoided the deluge by inches. Luck of the bloody Irish. Aidan, who can’t do anything but throw his head back and roar – no, concludes Dean, he’s actually howling, tears streaming down his face as he fights to regain some composure, failing every time his gaze falls on Dean’s dripping form. Dean shakes his head.  
“Cheers then,” he snarls at the other man, embarrassed and pissed off, and shuffles off towards the hotel as fast as his stiff jeans will let him, feeling water sloshing in his boots. He knows it’s not Aidan’s fault but he didn’t need to laugh so bloody hard at Dean’s misfortune. He'd probably be laughing himself if he wasn't having to hold his heart so tightly together tonight. He feels like he might split in two and come flooding out with all the things he's never been able to and never wanted to say, which he mustn't - he mustn't, because then Aidan really will never speak to him again.

Aidan is practically wheezing now but he catches up to Dean, bag of chocolates swinging from his arm.  
“Jesus I’m sorry Dean, but you just look so... Karma is a bitch, hey? Are you, ahh... Are you alright then?”  
Dean replies in a mock bright voice. “I’m fucking ace, thank you Turner. Fancied a shower anyway. I appreciate your concern.” He huffs and shakes some more water out of his hair.

They reach the lobby and Dean hasn’t banked on the horrified looks he receives as he crosses the wide expanse of polished stone to the wall of lifts at the back of the lobby, leaving a trail of water in his wake. He tries his hardest to look nonchalant, holding his head up and keeping up a fair pace despite his restrictive clothing. The icy blast from the air conditioning which kicks in as soon as they are through the door only adds to his discomfort.  
“Who knows, maybe there’s some kind of fetish for this over here? Soaking man?” Aidan whispers from beside him, earning him a hissed “Maybe there’s a fetish for man thrown off balcony too,” as Dean punches the lift button aggressively.

To his dismay there is a small group of older Japanese ladies in the lift, who look disapprovingly at Dean and engage in heated whispers between themselves. Aidan has shoved his fist in his mouth to stop himself laughing. Dean just looks at the ceiling. He wishes he could just disappear through the floor. Maybe if he weren’t so tired he’d see the funny side of it, but quite honestly he cannot be in his room soon enough, a hot shower blasting away the petrol-scented water. Aidan flashes the ladies a charming smile and they raise their eyebrows, but seem somewhat placated.

                                                                        ____________________________________ 

 

Much to Dean’s relief they reach their floor without further event, and as he reaches his door he can’t help but think maybe in some way it was a blessing in disguise; that he can now avoid any awkward and protracted goodnight scene with Aidan. He turns toward him as they pause outside his door. A stray damp curl has fallen across Aidan’s forehead and Dean finds himself fighting the temptation to reach out and brush it back. He’s never been able to stay mad with Aidan. The other man can sulk for his country when he wants to, but there’s something warm in Aidan that always manages to melt Dean’s frostiest moods.  
His brain is reeling, frantically searching for something casual to say. He casts his gaze downward, looking at Aidan’s feet, because he’s afraid of what the other man might find in his eyes if they were to meet.  
“Well,” he begins. His heart is pounding in his chest, but he’d really like it to stop because he’s quite certain Aidan can see it through his transparent t-shirt.  
“So goodnight,” Aidan mumbles simultaneously.  
They snort and before Dean can embarrass himself he turns to his door, managing what he reckons is a level, “Goodnight, Aid,” as the other man gives him a pat on the shoulder and strolls unhurriedly towards his own room.

Dean fishes in the back pocket of his jeans and fumbles with the key card in the door until he eventually finds the slot, pulling it out slowly only to see the red lock light still shining at him. He tries again, but the door just beeps and the red light blinks angrily at him. He bangs the door and blows on the card but the door remains obstinately uncooperative.  
“Shit. Must’ve got wet,” he sighs to no-one.  
Dean feels defeated as he leans heavily forward to rest his head against the door, aching for his pillow just metres away, clothes quietly dripping onto the plush carpet. He really doesn’t want to make the trip all the way back down to the lobby to replace the key. He’s really shivering now as the air conditioning has completely chilled his soaking clothes. As he stands there motionless with his eyes screwed shut he feels Aidan looking at him from further up the corridor, hears him chuckle, and braces himself for the inevitable barrage of piss-taking; but it never comes, and instead almost misses the quiet, “You can dry up in my room.”  
Dean raises his head to find Aidan looking expectantly at him from his doorway. Dean hesitates, sensing a trap, but the other man only rolls his eyes and heads inside, leaving the door ajar for Dean to do as he chooses.

Dean stands looking from his resolutely locked door to the open one along the corridor, and down to the useless key in his hand. After a long moment he groans and squelches sheepishly toward Aidan’s room, the draw of a towel and a dry t-shirt too hard to resist. He ignores the tremor in his hand as he raises it to timidly knock, telling himself he’s just cold. He hears Aidan murmur for him to come on in, and he thinks one more time about heading downstairs after all, that he really could just wait; only to find his feet have made up their mind already and as he enters the room the door clicks to a soft close behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet ;)

Dean is expecting to find the usual chaos that seems to spontaneously create itself in Aidan’s hotel rooms, but is more than a little surprised to see the space is almost spotlessly neat; his case lying closed on the floor, only his laptop and a tidy stack of papers on the desk.

For once, despite his smaller stature, he feels awkward and clumsy in the narrow space between the door and wide room before him. He bites his lip and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of where to put himself.

“Help yourself to a shower,” Aidan tells him, not looking up as he fires up his laptop on the other side of the room.

“Right, yeah. ‘Course, cheers,” Dean babbles, and hastily steps into the fancy wet room to his right. It lifts him a little to see that after three years Aidan isn’t completely new, an array of small bottles scattered across the countertop and a still-damp towel on the floor.

 

He peels off his waterlogged clothes and dumps them in the sink, turning his attention to the control panel for the shower, which seems to Dean more complicated than flying a plane might be. He decides the best approach is to stab at several buttons at once, resulting in a colourful LED-light show and to his utter relief, a thundering rush of steaming water.

 

He bows his head under the torrent, ears roaring. Leaning forward, hands flat against the cool marble, he lets the shower wash away the oily puddle and the cold. He wonders if he stands here long enough if the weight in his chest will flow away down the plug hole too, taking all his indecision with it. What is he _doing_? He shouldn’t have come into Aidan’s room. He’s most certainly going to have to make a hasty exit now, no doubt embarrassing himself even further. He doesn’t know whether he wants to throw himself at this man or to lay into him for everything that isn’t. He doesn’t know what he was expecting. Or exactly what he wants, even. But he wasn’t anticipating Aidan having moved on so completely. It makes him feel - what? Used? Stupid? He’s angry with himself more than anything.

 

They never said it, that word. That thing that might have changed everything. Dean knows he wanted to, knows that it nearly bubbled from his lips a thousand times and he carries in his mind a constellation of moments that make his ribs ache with it even now, but he was scared. Of what he might lose, and of what he might gain. Of admitting it to himself - he doesn’t like labels. Labeling it would’ve meant they’d have to confront it, and confronting it would’ve meant accepting that Aidan really couldn’t stay. He thinks that somehow saying it that it would have made it less than it was, condensing it into something so inadequate, packing it into a little box to give away.

The fact remains though - Aidan never said it either, and Dean knows that means he doesn’t have some sort of monopoly on him. Aidan can do what he wants with whoever he chooses, and Dean can’t come marching in here expecting him to come running after all this time.

 

Aidan is probably ecstatic with this shower, he thinks wryly - all these buttons and lights. He always did love gadgets.

 

* * *

 

Dean shuffles out into the room with a towel wrapped tightly around his waist, hovering in the space between the narrow entrance and the edge of the bed. He is acutely aware that he has nothing dry to wear, and feels more awkward than ever. The lamps are turned off, the only illumination coming from the cool blue glow of Aidan’s laptop and the backdrop of city lights from the uncovered wall of windows. The Irishman’s body is blocking the screen but light flows round his torso making it look like the light it is emanating from him. He’s taken off his own wet shirt, the soft gleam of the screen highlighting every muscle in his back, and Dean slowly follows their smooth contours down to the waistband of his jeans. He realizes Aidan is listening to music, earplugs in his ears, and that he hasn’t noticed Dean’s renewed presence in the room.

 

Aidan’s lost in concentration as he squints at the screen, head slumped in his hand, elbow propped on the desk. And then it strikes Dean that he’s watching Aidan but he doesn’t know he’s being watched. He's just _existing_ entirely without him. He isn’t pacing the room nervously, waiting for Dean to emerge. He isn’t waiting to turf him out, or stretched out with a beer in hand flicking through terrible TV inviting Dean to join him. He’s just doing what Aidan does without Dean, what he’s done since he left New Zealand. He looks tired, a little frayed round the edges; maybe even a little - sad? Dean thinks half-hopefully - but he definitely doesn’t look as torn as Dean feels, doesn’t look like he is waiting around for a missing piece.  He doesn’t look like he’s waiting for Dean at all.

 

Dean’s mouth falls open and then quickly shut again. He can’t do this. He just can’t. He should leave him alone.

 

He quietly backs away toward the door, feeling for the handle in the dark; but something stops him, his subconscious reeling him back. He’s clocked something on the bedside table, something vaguely familiar. He reaches for it, his fingertips connecting with something cool and smooth, a small object placed in the centre of the glass surface. He picks it up; feels the weight of it in his hand. He doesn’t need to look any closer to know exactly what it is.

And suddenly he just _gets_ it. His exhausted brain can only offer him one explanation as to why this is the only thing Aidan has unpacked in his otherwise empty hotel room. He’s not waiting around for a missing piece. He’s brought it with him.

The gravity of it hits Dean and he feels dizzy and staggers, catching his knee on the bed with a thud. Aidan starts and turns to find Dean gaping at him, bewildered.

 

_They’re sitting on the hood of Dean’s car which they’ve parked right on the deserted beach. They’re sharing a bag of chips, bare feet caked in wet sand. Dean leans back against the glass, white t-shirt riding up just enough to expose a trail of caramel curls that disappear beneath his board shorts. Aidan absentmindedly traces a finger along the ridge of his hipbone, making Dean shiver despite the lingering heat of the evening. Aidan’s own t-shirt lies forgotten on the sand somewhere beside the car and Dean thinks that the glow from the setting sun makes it look like his skin is cast in bronze. Aidan turns his attention back to the relentless surf and quietly clears his throat._

_“Hey Dean?”_

_“Hmm?” he hums, squinting at Aidan from beneath his forearm which is resting over his eyes._

_“I’ve... been wondering. Do you think... that maybe we should...” Aidan trails off, stubbing out his cigarette as his eyebrows carve a deep valley into his forehead._

_Dean is feeling supremely comfortable and had been half asleep but at this he sits straight upright. He’s been thinking the same thing more than is probably healthy lately. He remembers their first kiss in the alleyway; after a seemingly endless pause Aidan ducks his head down towards Dean with such calm purpose that at first Dean is stunned and their lips brush once, then twice; soft and melting like tobacco-scented cotton candy - then they’re devouring each other until their teeth clash and Aidan breaks away breathless and laughing, and Dean laughs too because why the hell haven’t they done this sooner? They had stumbled into bed that first night but they only got as far as grinding their bodies into each other, legs tangled, neither sure if they should be the first to go any further, the angles of the body solid against their own both as appealing as they were unfamiliar. They must’ve fallen asleep because Dean had woken up in a panic at finding Aidan snoring next to him – not that he didn’t want to be there, just he wasn’t sure the other man really did. But Aidan had eventually woken with a lazy smile and a wink and rolled out of bed in search of coffee, and that was that. It should be awkward, but it isn’t. Since then they’ve taken every stolen opportunity to explore each other further, hands raking down backs and fingers knotted in hair; hungry kisses pressed up against doors with legs jammed up between thighs, even a particularly memorable night out in the woods in which Aidan had blown him into near-oblivion; but they’ve not yet fucked and it’s starting to plague Dean’s every waking thought. He hadn’t really considered how attractive Aidan was until they started making out, but now he can barely take his eyes off him; and though he knows neither of them has been with a guy before he can’t help but think that sex with him would be out of this world._

_Dean looks about the empty beach. “God, I thought you’d never ask. But ahh... don’t you think it might be a little... sandy?” His voice is gravelly as he adjusts his shorts, half hard at the thought of what is to come._

_Aidan whips his head round now, brown eyes wide. “Oh! Uhh... Well,” He brings his hands up to run them through his hair and then rubs at his face, clearly embarrassed. “Thing is, umm, I was going to say do you think maybe we should head home, but...”_

_Dean wishes he could evaporate but Aidan grabs his hand._

_“But yes. Yeah, yes, absolutely. That,” says Aidan, looking meaningfully at him, tongue flitting across his lips._

_“Y-yeah?” Dean offers, raising his eyebrows, wanting to be sure they’re now talking about the same thing._

_Aidan leans in and kisses him hard, biting Dean’s bottom lip._

_“Let’s go home,” he breathes into Dean’s mouth, and after a second of stillness both of them are scrambling off the car hood, slinging their belongings into the car as fast as they can. Dean retrieves Aidan’s discarded t-shirt and as he picks it up he can’t help but notice a smooth, polished green pebble lying on the ground. He picks it up and turns it over in his hand._

_“Wha’s da’?” Aidan mumbles through the towel clamped between his teeth as he slides his trainers back on. Dean twists to show him from the other side of the bonnet._

_“It’s greenstone. I don’t know what it’s doing here though, it comes from down south. Maybe someone dropped it?”_

_It’s a beautiful little thing, thinks Dean. The weight of it feels good in his hand. Without thinking he pulls Aidan’s hand towards his and presses the pebble into his palm, closing his fingers around it. For a second their eyes meet and Aidan has a look of pure surprise on his face, like Dean has given him a great treasure. Dean feels his face go red around the edges._

_“It’s nothing special really, mate, but you know. Keep it. Make sure you don’t forget me,” Dean adds jokingly. Aidan just looks from Dean to the stone places it carefully in his pocket._

_“I’d say the way you smell after a day in costume is pretty unforgettable darlin’, but thanks all the same,” Aidan laughs, dodging to narrowly avoid the flip-flop that comes flying at his head as he climbs into the car, jangling the keys and grinning like a Cheshire cat._

_“Are you are you and your jandals coming or what? Ooh – are you gonna wear those in bed?”_

_This time Dean doesn’t miss._

 

Aidan hurriedly stands, eyes tracking down to the object clenched between white knuckles.

“Aah,” he starts softly, but Dean shakily raises his empty hand to stop him.

“But... you’ve been so...” He screws his eyes tightly shut, trying to order his racing thoughts.

 

_They scramble up the stairs and the door slams behind them as Aidan turns and pins Dean to the back of it, arms raised above his head. Dean’s never seen anyone look so wild, so mesmerizing. He looks Aidan square in the eyes, counting the millimetres between their lips, and whispers “Fuck me.”_

_And Aidan groans and lifts him off his feet, wrapping his legs around his hips as they stumble towards the bed._

_Hot sand on bare feet, cold sand on the morning sheets._

“I’ve been going out of my head all day. No. No – I’ve been going out of my head for _years_ , Aidan, hoping against hope that you’re still the person I used to know. That it wasn’t all... nothing. Hoping that even a tiny part of you might feel like what we had might just have been the best fucking thing in your life too, and what? - You weren’t going to _tell_ me? You’re sitting there and you don’t even look like you remember I’m here. I thought... I thought you didn’t even miss me,” Dean gives his head a small shake as he looks at the stone in his palm.

 

“I don’t _miss_ you? _Christ_ Dean,” Aidan sighs, throwing his head back in frustrated disbelief. “Okay. Okay. Are we doing this? Jesus. Alright. Do you remember the weeks after I left? Those nights on the phone talking about nothing at all? Until very late turned into too late, and finally I’d to go to sleep listening to you just breathing? I’d wake up with my face all red from being pressed against the phone, lying right on it to make sure I didn’t miss a bit of whatever sound you made. I didn’t give a _damn_ how tired I was during the daytime because You. Weren’t. There. _Nothing_ else mattered. It was all just detail. I ruined my days for those nights and I would _still_ do it every day if you... if...” He trails off for a moment.

“I don’t know why we stopped. I don’t know how we fell apart, but we did. It was too...sharp. I had to put space between us because I felt like I was going to _break_ or something. God, didn’t it _hurt_?” Aidan slaps his hand onto the desk, narrowing his eyes as the question hangs in the air between them.

“And hell, I’m sorry for that, Dean. I truly am. Worst mistake of my life. But you - you never came after me. I know that’s weak but... We met up a couple of times with everyone and you were all cool and didn’t say anything and we were just friends and... I don’t know, I guess... I guess I thought you’d moved on. So I tried to as well. But I didn’t stop _missing_ you.” His eyes flash darkly as the words come thick and fast now.

“And I _still_ I miss you, every day. It constantly catches me off guard. Every time, _every single time_ , it’s like having the air knocked out of me. I'll see something I want to tell you about and walk off to find you, or be having just a really shitty day, or hear something funny and turn to see you laughing right next to me, and then I remember you aren’t there anymore. I don’t even know where you are in the world half the time, and I know that’s no-one’s fault but my own. I’ll pull out a map and not even know where to start looking for you. I hate that. I _hate_ that, not even being able to imagine if you’re awake or asleep, if it’s warm where you are. If... you’re somewhere that might make you think of me. And you know what the worst part is? I’m standing ten feet from you, shouting at you and even after all this time, _all_ this time, I can’t find better a better way to say it. I have so many, _so many_ words for what you are, Dean, but all I can manage is to tell you that I love you; and that doesn’t even begin to cover it and it makes me so mad. And if you don’t want it then... then fine. But it’s not a choice for me. I can’t just turn this off because god knows I’ve tried. I’ll sit up at night and dial your number and hang up before you answer because - what could I _possibly_ say to you? I’d give anything to just go back for another day of how things were. I always thought you were better than me, you know? You always seemed so cool about it, like you had it all sorted. I hated that I was scared. It wasn't that I only loved some of you. But I didn’t think that... that you could ever love more than just some of me. There’s this hole in me where you used to be, Dean, and I find myself falling into it all the time. I’m like a...” he waves his hands around, as if he might scrape the words he’s searching for towards him, “A stone in your ocean. So don’t tell me that I don’t miss you.” Aidan’s voice is shaking now.

“And today. I’ll be the first to admit it’s been the weirdest day. Honestly, I have had the best time. But I saw you when you arrived and I thought I was going to, I don’t know, _burst_ or something, and there you are being Mr. Chill, and I just thought, shit. He’s really gone. I blew my last chance and I didn’t even know it. So what was I supposed to do? All day, Dean, _all day_ you’ve been buttoned up so tight and do you know what, I’ll not have you pointing your finger at me here. You said _nothing_. You never said anything. How was I supposed to know? I’m not a fucking mind reader. This your fault as much as it is mine and I know for a fact that’s why you’re so wound up – either of us could have changed this a long time ago but we didn’t,” he exhales hard, looking at the floor, “We didn’t.”

After a long pause, he slowly raises his eyes and very quietly adds, “It makes me shiver, thinking of the way things could have been. Have we fucked this up?”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Greenstone is the generic English term for a semi-precious stone that goes by many names, including nephrite, jade and pounamu. Typically green or black in colour and often flecked with hints of gold and cloudy milky hues, greenstone is found in South Island New Zealand, along the west coast and around Lake Wakatipu.  
> The Māori name is Pounamu. It is known as the God Stone of the Māori people, and modern Māori who wish to give a gift of pounamu will always seek out New Zealand nephrite. Traditionally, Māori have embraced this stone as a talisman and believed in its spiritual powers to evoke strength and prosperity, to protect, express love and kinship, and to depict growth and harmony*
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> I was going to make this and what happens next one long chapter, but really there just needs to be a break here so I'll post the rest soon, if you'd still like to read this. Thanks for reading.


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